Relates the stories of ten boys who lived at vastly different times and places in history, giving the reader an excellent introduction to the important epochs in the world's history. Through these imaginary characters the book gives vivid pictures of the conditions of life at different periods of the world's development, and fosters an appreciation of all history stories which may afterward be read. Ages 10-12

189 pages

$9.95

CHAPTER VI

THE STORY OF GILBERT THE PAGE, WHO WILL ONE DAY BECOME A KNIGHT

"Make me thy Knight, because I know, Sir King,

All that belongs to Knighthood."

[136] THE boys are at their lessons in the court yard of the
castle. I say "at their lessons," but you must not imagine
them studying their books, or hard at work on some difficult
question in arithmetic.

No, the lesson they are learning on this bright September
afternoon is one that boys of our time might call play,—and
yet it is a pretty hard lesson too.

[137] Their master has set up for them a quintain, and Guy, and
Walter, and Geoffrey and Robert, and even little Hugh, are
trying their skill by riding at it.

Let us take a look at the quintain, for perhaps you have
never seen one before. It is a rough figure of a man
fastened by a pivot upon a post in such a way that it will
easily swing round. It bears a club in one hand and in the
other a shield held before it.

Now watch young Geoffrey as he rides his pony gallantly,
and, with lance in rest and head bent low, charges the
quintain.

See, he strikes fairly on the middle of the shield, and
passing, wheels his pony and returns to the entrance of the
court yard.

Then up comes Robert, and he too would gladly strike the
shield; but it is not so easy to manage both pony and lance
at the same time; the blow falls on one side instead of in
the middle, and instantly the quintain swings round and
deals him a blow with the club as he passes. Even the pony
seems to share the shame of this failure, and he and his
young rider return with
[138] drooping heads to the end of the
lists. You see it is not a very easy lesson after all, and
it takes much practice and patience to learn it.

Up rides one boy after another, and with varying fortunes
they return and are ready to try again at their master's
call, till the red sunset lights up the tall towers of the
castle, and the narrow windows,—mere slits in the thick
stone wall,—glitter like gems as they reflect the light, for
they have glass in them, a new and precious article which
has just come into use in place of the oiled paper which
formerly covered the window slits.

The Lady Margaret comes to the castle door. She calls to her
Walter, the page.

"You have the eye of a hawk, Walter," she says. "Go to the
battlement of the north tower, and see if you can spy the
banners of my lord returning from the battle."

The boy bows gracefully and bounds up the narrow stone
stairway that winds about within the thickness of the
massive wall. He springs up stair after stair, and soon
finds himself on the battlements of the north tower, looking
far over
[139] field and forest towards the high road and the ford
of the winding river.

Suddenly out from the forest path just beside the ford he
sees a glittering helmet, and the shimmer of light upon
lance and shield.

"He comes!" cries the boy, waving his hand to the watchers
below, and then, running quickly down, he drops on one knee
at the feet of the lady, and says, "Dear lady, my lord is
already passing the ford of the white stones, and he will be
here before the sunset light has faded."

The lady thanks him with a gracious smile, and bidding him
go back to his companions, she turns to the steward and
squire of the hall, and bids them prepare the feast, for the
knights will be both faint and weary.

The boys loiter about the castle gate, listening for the
bugle blast that shall announce the approach of the lord of
the castle, and presently a gay troop of knights on prancing
horses, with pennon on lance, breaks from the gloomy forest,
and with a ringing bugle blast turns up the hill-path that
leads to the castle gate.

The heavy drawbridge is swung across the
[140] moat; the barred
portcullis is raised, and with jingling spurs and clashing
shields the knights pass into the court-yard.

"The heavy drawbridge is swung across the moat; the barred portcullis is raised."

Riding behind Sir Roland is a boy of twelve years; on his
saddle-bow he carries his lord's helmet; and he watches with
careful attention every word or gesture of Sir Roland, as if
expecting some command. In a moment it comes.

"Gilbert, take thou the English boy to thy master, Baldwin,
and he will provide for him lodging, and all needful care."

And turning to a fair-faced, golden-haired boy, who rides at
his side, he says to him, "Go thou with Gilbert. The son of
so valiant a father will find welcome and safety in my
castle."

So the two boys turn their horses' heads towards the side of
the court-yard, where we have already seen Walter and Guy
and the others charging the quintain.

Gilbert conducts his companion to Baldwin, the old squire,
and presents him as Edward, son of Sir Richard Britto, a
hostage for his father,
[141] who was yesterday taken prisoner by
Sir Roland.

Sir Richard had gone home to England to raise his ransom and
had left his son as hostage for his own appearance here, as
soon thereafter as the will of heaven will permit.

Baldwin, the squire, receives the English lad kindly, and
directs that he shall share Gilbert's lodging at the top of
the north tower, and then he bids the boys make ready to
serve the meal.

Walter and Geoffrey and Guy are already busy relieving the
knights of their heavy armor, and the tables are laid in the
long hall, which, now that daylight is fading, has been
lighted with blazing torches.

"A long hall it is indeed. The walls are hung with tapestry,
whereon are strange pictures of men and animals, towers and
trees, castles and stag-hunts. Banners are grouped over the
windows, and shields hang glittering in the torch-light; the
floor is strewn with sweet herbs, from which the foot
presses out the fragrance as the knights come in with
stately tread.

A long table down the middle, and a shorter
[142] one across the
upper end, on a slightly raised platform, are already loaded
with dishes and flagons. A large thick slice of bread serves
each guest as a plate, and a little crusty loaf, called a
knight's loaf, is placed beside his dish of soup.

There are boar's flesh and venison, and baked meats, and as
the knights take seats in the order of their rank, their
favorite dogs stretch themselves at their feet.

The pages—many of them sons of these same knights—serve
every one, pour the wine, carve the meats, and pass the
dishes.

Presently two damsels enter, carrying between them a silver
dish, upon which rests a roasted peacock, gay in all its
feathers and with outspread resplendent tail.

They advance to the upper table, and there set the dainty
dish before the lord of the castle; and then the twanging of
a harp is heard, and the old gray-haired minstrel begins to
sing, and the feast is fairly begun.

[143] Gilbert and his companion have soon washed off the dust of
their journey, and are ready to take their share of the
service, while they listen with delight to the minstrel's
song, relating feats of arms of the knights of old, and
ending with Sir Roland's own brave victory of yesterday.

After the feast is over, Gilbert is summoned by a gentle
lady,—Edith by name,—whom he had chosen when he was but
eight years old for his mistress, whom he would loyally
serve for ever.

She asks him about the expedition from which he has just
returned, and when he has told his tale, modestly omitting
to mention himself at all, she says with a smile that
brightens all her face, "And you, too, have acquitted
yourself well. Sir Roland tells me that you pressed through
many dangers to bring him a fresh lance when his own was
broken, and that but for thee, my Gilbert, he would not have
been able to take prisoner, this English knight, Sir Richard
Britto. It is good to be valiant amid dangers, but there is
no real danger but the
[144] danger of being a coward." So said
the lady Edith.

The boy's face glows with delight as he hears these words
from his fair lady.

"And bring me even now thy new comrade, the English
hostage," she says. And Gilbert, crossing the hall, finds
the lad standing in the deep embrasure of the window, and
listening, with a scowl on his brow, to the discourse of two
knights who are recounting the events of the last few days.

"He yielded, rescue or no rescue," said one, "and the word
of a knight is a bond not to be broken. And yet, I doubt
not, his kinsmen will gather to his rescue; and in a week
and a day, if not earlier, we must bar our gates and hold
our own as best we may against Sir Everhard with two hundred
lances at his back."

At this moment Gilbert touches the boy upon the shoulder,
saying, "My lady Edith calls for thee,—come," and with a
light step and the martial bearing of young knights the two
boys return to the lady who awaits them.

With gentle kindness she questions the little
[145] stranger about
his home, and bids him welcome to the Castle of St. Claire.

"It may be that the fortunes of war will leave you with us
for many months, and that your training as becomes the son
of a knight be not allowed to languish, you shall exercise
each day under the care of Baldwin, the squire, and you
shall choose among the ladies of St. Claire a mistress whom
you will serve."

"I serve my lady mother," answers the boy, with a touch of
resentment in his tone. "It is she whom I love, and I will
serve her before all others."

"Nay, be not rude. You will make but an ungentle knight, if
you have no softer tone than that for a lady. You serve your
lady mother from duty, but what lady will you serve for
love? See yonder lovely ladies who listen to the tales that
the knights are telling. Choose, then, one among them to be
your mistress while you abide with us; for how can your
knightly training go on if you lack a mistress to smile upon
your successes and admonish you when there is need."

[146] Again the boy hesitates; but, looking up, he sees the kindly
eyes of the Lady Margaret fixed upon him with a look of
pity, and he says to Gilbert, "Lead me to the kind lady with
the broidered robe. I will gladly serve her while I stay."

So Gilbert led him to Lady Margaret, who instantly
understood the purpose of his coming, and sent him to lead
to her side her favorite greyhound, that had strayed across
the hall.

But the feast is over; the knights are grouped about the
hall. Young Sir Ranulf is stringing his lute, that he may
sing to Lady Edith the little lay that he made in her honor
as he rode through the greenwood. Old Sir Guy, too feeble
now for warfare, is listening to every detail of the fight
of yesterday, and asking, "What news from the king's court?"

"The king," replies Sir Gerard, "has ordered each nobleman
to cause the high roads in his province to be guarded every
day from sunrise to sunset; and if, by his neglect,
robberies shall occur, he must make the loss good."

"It is a hard task he sets us," adds Sir
Ber- [147] nard. "If a man
must keep the highway safe, he will have little time for
aught else."

The boys, who would gladly stay and listen, have been sent
to their lodgings in the north tower, and while they sleep
shall you and I ramble about this castle, their home, and
become a little better acquainted with it?

All around it is a wide, deep moat or ditch, to be crossed
only by a bridge which is drawn up and safely secured in the
great arched gateway of the outer wall.

If we sound our horn, and, announcing ourselves as friends,
are allowed to cross the drawbridge and enter the gateway,
there is still the great, barred portcullis that can be
suddenly let down to prevent our further entrance, if the
warder so wills.

But we are welcome guests and we soon find ourselves in the
outer court, the place where the boys were practising with
the quintain yesterday.

Here on one side are stables for the horses, lodging for the
yeomen and the squires, and room for saddling and mounting
when the train
[148] of knights make ready to ride out to battle
or to tournament.

Square towers guard the gateway and the corners of the
walls, and the great stone battlements have many a slit or
gutter down which boiling tar or melted lead may be poured
upon a besieging enemy.

The stone stairways wind with many a turn through the walls.
If an enemy should succeed in crossing the moat, forcing the
gate, and winning the outer court, still the great strong
inner keep may be held, and every stair defended with sword
and dagger and battle-axe. For these are times when each
man's home is a castle, a fort to be held against neighbors
who may any day prove themselves enemies.

You would not need to live in this castle many months to
witness many a brave defence against enemies who are also
brave.

But we want to know something of the common daily life of
Gilbert and his companions, and so we must go with them in
the early morning into the little chapel of the castle,
where the priest reads the matin service in Latin, and
[149] lords and ladies and pages kneel upon stone floor or velvet
cushions and repeat their Pater Noster and their Ave Maria.
These prayers have been taught to the boys by their fair
ladies, who bid them always reassure themselves in time of
danger by the thought, "For God and for my lady," and then
do nobly the best they can.

Chapel service and breakfast being over, the knights and
ladies will go hawking by the river, and Lady Edith calls
upon Gilbert to bring her gray falcon. The boy comes
quickly, and perched upon his wrist, with scarlet hood and
collar of gold, is the gray falcon, or goshawk.

The ladies are mounted on their palfreys, and, with the
knights on their gay horses, come prancing over the
drawbridge, and turn down the bridle-path towards the river.

They pass the field, where the peasant boys are gathering in
the grain, the big oven of stone, where the women come to
bake their bread, and come at last to the mill beside the
stream, where the peasants must come to grind their corn;
for every peasant must bake in his lord's oven and
[150] grind in
his lord's mill, as well as till his lord's fields and fight
against his lord's enemies, if so brave a knight should ever
have need of the services of so humble a vassal.

The peasant boys are dressed in gowns or blouses fastened
round the waist with a strip of leather; their legs are
bare, and they wear clumsy shoes of wood or of coarse
leather. Their matted hair, hangs uncombed and shaggy about
their faces. You would hardly think they were of the same
race as the pretty boy pages in their gay dresses, who ride
or run beside their lords and ladies.

"To go a hawking by the river with gray goshawk on hand."

I am sure you never went "a hawking," so I will stop to tell
you of this morning's sport.

As the merry troop near the river, a long-legged heron, who
was standing quietly fishing for his breakfast among the
reeds near the bank, is startled by the sound of laughter
and the jingling of bridle bells. He spreads his wings and
rises from his breakfast-table to see what is the matter;
but no sooner is he in sight, than
[151] Lady Edith waves her
white hand to Gilbert; he slips the little scarlet hood from
the falcon's head, and away darts the strong bird of prey,
up, up, up, while lords and ladies rein in their horses and
sit watching his flight. See him go! Why, he has fairly
passed the heron, and still he flies higher. Yes, he did
that to "get the sky of him," that is, to get above him,
between him and the sky. You understand it perfectly when
you see him, the next minute, pounce down, down, with a
terrible swoop, upon the heron, and kill it with one blow of
strong claws and beak.

"Sound your lure, Gilbert," cries Lady Edith, and Gilbert
lifts the pretty lure that hangs by his side, and sounds a
long, clear whistle upon it. The falcon turns instantly, and
darts back to him, knowing that the whistle means for him
praise and petting, and some dainty bit of food as a reward
for his good hunting; and then he is chained to his perch,
and hooded again, until another bird rises.

Many a bird do the falcons bring down on that bright
morning, and when the merry party turns back towards the
castle, the knights
[152] sound their hunting horns, the warder
lets down the drawbridge, and they all troop in as gaily as
they went out.

In a corner of the outer court the boys find the old armorer
at work. He is singing to himself as he sharpens a sword or
fits a lance point, and the boys love to watch and to
listen.

"Yes," answered Gilbert, "Father Pierre has taught me to
read from the psalter."

"Read then," says the armorer, "the motto on this sword, for
it will one day be your own."

The boy spelled out with some difficulty the words inscribed
on the sword-hilt, but, finally he lifted his head proudly
and read out clearly, "For God and my right."

"This sword has done good service for many a year," went on
the old man. "Its blade has sent many a Paynim to his death,
and its hilt has served as a cross for many a death-prayer."

[153] "I was beside your father when he was made knight-banneret.
That was before you were born. The king was about to give
battle to the English; your father rode into camp with a
hundred lances behind his back, and his pennon floating from
his lance. 'Sire,' he said, presenting the pennon to the
king, 'I place my pennon at your service;' and the king
gave it back to him, cut into a square banner, bidding him
henceforth carry a banner, instead of a pennon, ever
foremost in battle."

But the boys must not linger to talk or listen, for already
the tables are spread in the long hall.

After dinner Lord Roland challenges Lord Percy to a game of
chess, and while Guy, the page, goes to arrange the board,
Gilbert and English Edward are called out upon the balcony
to attend the ladies, who have gathered round the old
minstrel, and asked for a tale of true love and honor.

The old man touches his harp, and, lifting his face, sits
listening for a moment to the soft sounds that his fingers
awaken among the
[154] strings; then a smile lights his face and
he begins to sing.

The song is of a fair lady shut up in a strong tower and
hidden away from the knight whom she loves, and of her
rescue by the knight, who braves all dangers for her
sake,—a sweet, old story,
which I must not stop to tell you here,
but you can find a hundred like it among the old chivalric
tales.

The ladies sigh at the sad parts, and smile at the brave
deeds, and when the song is ended, they give the old man a
mantle and a piece of silver, and wine in a silver flagon.

"Now tell me, young Edward," says Lady Margaret, "have you
in England songs like this, and minstrels who sing so sweet?
That you have brave knights and fair ladies we already know.
Perhaps you can yourself touch the lute, and sing some song
of love, or of deeds of arms. Bring hither your lute,
Walter, and let the young stranger sing to us."

"As you command me, dear lady," answers the boy, "I gladly
obey," and after a little prelude upon the lute, he began,—

[155]

"It was an English lady bright

The sun shines fair on Carlyle wall

And she would marry a Scottish knight

For love would still be lord of all."

"Then love is lord of all even across the seas," Lady
Margaret says as the boy ends his song.

"Listen now, dear youths, for I would have you learn from
the minstrel's tale the rule of a true knight. Lay it to
heart, that it may serve you in your need."

"A true knight should have his feet steady, his hands
diligent, his eyes watchful, and his heart resolute."

"And all for the service of God and his lady," added Lord
Roland, who at that moment stepped upon the balcony.

For a few days life goes on gaily at St. Claire. One day
there is hawking, another hunting. The boys practise
charging the quintain, and learn that to break lance against
the pommel of a saddle is greater shame than to have stayed
out of the contest altogether; so day by day their charge
grows surer and steadier upon the
[156] shield, and they long to
prove themselves at some grand tourney.

One morning a messenger rides up to the castle gate and
delivers a letter with a ponderous seal, which Gilbert
carries to Lord Roland.

The knight looks at the seal, and breaks it carefully, and,
after much study of the letter, summons the priest to read
it to him, saying, "I am no clerk."

"The holy bishop is journeying through the province, and,
with Abbot Adam and his company, will honor you by dining
with you to-day. He also wills that all the youths of your
household who are of twelve years or over, be ready to take
before him the oath prescribed by the Council of Clermont."

Thus ran the letter; and it caused great bustle in the
castle, both in kitchen and in hall. Especially were the
pages drilled in their duties, that they might serve the
bishop with both grace and reverence.

Before noon the stately train enters the castle and receives
a courteous welcome from its lord and lady.

[157] The floor of the long hall has been freshly strewn with
fragrant grasses, and among the costly dishes provided for
the dinner is a roasted swan, which Gilbert, as the best
carver, is allowed to serve. Then there are loaves of fine
wheaten bread, and russet apples, baked pears, and peaches
heaped upon silver dishes, and figs from Malta.

In the train of the bishop and the abbot, Guy and Walter
have already spied three boys; two of them not more than
eight years old, dressed like themselves, in tunics of gay
colors, and with beautiful curling hair. The other boy, of
perhaps twelve years, has his hair closely cut, and wears a
gray blouse of the simplest pattern and coarsest texture,
and yet he does not look like the peasant boys whom we saw
at work in the fields. He is, it is true, the son of a
peasant, the boy Suger, whom the good monks have taken into
the abbey, that they may teach him, for the lad shows a fine
head for reading and psalm-singing. He can not only write
with the stylus on waxen tablets, but he can copy with a pen
on parchment, and he is kept busy many
[158] hours of each day
copying books in beautiful red and blue letters, while the
monk, Stephen, in the next cell, takes from him each page
and decorates it with delicately drawn pictures of saints
and angels.

It is a wonderful thing to work on these books. They are so
rare that few people own even one of them, and you must know
that there were, in those times, no printed books like those
which you read every day, for the art of printing had not
yet been invented.

Suger had accompanied the holy abbot on this journey that he
might attend the two young boys, Henry and Geoffrey, twin
sons of Lord Eustace of Boulogne. The bishop is their uncle,
and the boys are themselves, in part, the cause of his visit
to the castle. He had received them a week before from their
father, with the request that, if he were travelling
southward, he would place the children with his old friend
and brother in arms, Roland of St. Claire, that in his
castle, and under the care of the priests, the squire, and,
most of all, the ladies who were teaching his own son, they
might begin their chivalric education.

[159] "It is a shame to do nothing but eat, and drink, and waste
time;" their father had said, "the lads are eight years old;
let them at least learn the duty of obedience and service,
and nowhere can they learn it better than at St. Claire."

All this the bishop is telling to Lord Roland, who would
have gladly taken the boys to please their uncle, and still
more gladly accepts the charge for love of his old brother
in arms, Lord Eustace.

"And now," says the bishop, "since the holy Council of
Clermont has so decreed, let all the pages who are of twelve
years or over, repair to the chapel, and there take the
first sacred oath that their calling requires of them."

Gilbert and Guy and Walter and Geoffrey, the son of Count
Charles, are accordingly summoned to the chapel, and,
kneeling there before the bishop, they repeat reverently the
promise to defend widows and orphans; to protect women; to
do all that may lie in their power to render travel safe,
and to destroy tyranny.

And the bishop gives them his blessing, and
[160] prays that by
God's grace, they may have strength to keep this oath.

It was a strange promise, you think, for a boy of twelve.
But when it was thought necessary for even such young boys
to take a sacred oath to protect women and orphans, you can
see that women and orphans must have been in great need of
protection. If even boys were made responsible for rendering
travel safe, then indeed the high roads must have been full
of danger, and if every boy is to destroy tyranny, tyrants
must have been more common than they are in our own days.

Hardly have the bishop and his train left the next morning
when a rider in hot haste reaches the castle with news that
Sir Everhard Breakspear, with more than two hundred lances
at his back, is riding up from the north ford, and will
reach the castle in less than an hour.

No hawking nor hunting that day, but each knight looks to
his arms, and each has his place assigned him for the
defence.

There is a hasty council held in the hall, and it is decided
that word must be sent to the
[161] neighboring castle of Montain
that Sir Everhard Breakspear and the Free Companions are
abroad, and help is needed at St. Claire.

"And who shall bear our message?" asks Lord Percy.

"Gilbert, the page, is to be trusted with the message. He is
light of foot or safe to swim his horse through the stream,
if need be. Let him take the little jennet, and go without
delay," said Lord Roland.

When Gilbert is told of his errand, it seems to him that an
opportunity has come for the first fulfilment of his oath;
for even the boys know how the Free Companions are making it
unsafe to ride unarmed, or even well armed, by day or night
through the whole province.

So, mounted on the little jennet,—a light horse with a
light burden,—the boy is let out at the postern gate,
which is quickly closed and barred behind him.

As our story is of Gilbert, rather than of the castle, we
will follow him on his dangerous ride, and leave the knights
to defend their stronghold with great stones, boiling lead
and pitch,
[162] and many a crossbow bolt, and lance, until succor
shall arrive.

Creeping through the edge of the forest, the boy finds his
way unnoticed, but presently he hears upon the high road the
trampling of many hoofs, and, forcing his horse into a
thicket, he watches the mailed horsemen, that, with
glittering lance, and spur on heel, make a gallant show as
they press forward on the road to St. Claire.

"Quiet, my beauty," he whispers to his horse, as he pats his
neck. "Quiet! We will outwit them yet; but let them pass
this time." And finally, assuring himself that the last
laggard of the train has really passed, he takes the highway
and rides fast towards the castle of Montain.

The sun has set and the September twilight is fast deepening
into night, when from the forest road at his right comes a
black horse bearing a tall knight in armor. His head is
covered only with the light bacinet, but at his saddle-bow
hang a heavy mallet and a battle-axe, and from his long
lance floats a silken pennon. Behind him rides a squire,
carrying his shield and helmet.

[163] "Whither so fast, young page?" he cries to the boy, who,
doubtful whether to regard the stranger as friend or foe,
inclines to urge his horse to a quicker pace.

"To do my lord's will," replies Gilbert discreetly.

"And what may be your lord's will?" asks the knight.

"I carry a message to the Lord of Montain, but it is my
lord's message, not mine. I have no right to give it to
another."

"That is loyally spoken, and I will not ask of you what you
have no right to give, but tell me now, have you seen a band
of free lances pass this way?"

"That I have," replied the boy. "Sir Everhard Breakspear, I
think, and two hundred of the Free Companions."

"And which way did they go."

"Northward, towards St. Claire."

"And the castle they attack will need a stout defence," said
the knight; "but I would I were there to help defend it; for
I have made a vow to rest neither day nor night until I have
[164] avenged upon the Free Companions the death of my brother in
arms."

As Gilbert hears these words he feels sure that the knight
is a friend, so he frankly tells that he is bound to Montain
to seek help against these same free lances for his lord,
Sir Roland, besieged in St. Claire.

"Then, my brave boy," says the knight, "I, who am a knight
errant, seeking adventure and honor in all places where
danger leads me, will also go with you to Montain, and there
join such succors as may go to Sir Roland's assistance."

And Gilbert gladly accepts the protection of the unknown
knight, and is about to take his place behind the squire
when the knight says, "Nay, but ride beside me, that I may
ask of thee tidings of thy lord and of the Lady Margaret,
too, for of old I have fought beside Sir Roland in the Holy
Land, and the fair Lady Margaret has made me welcome after
battle, and herself dressed for me this sword-cut across my
cheek."

They reach Montain without further adventure, and the
wandering knight blows such a
[165] blast upon his horn that the
warder opens the wicket, and demands quickly,—

"Who comes thus after nightfall to the castle of Montain?"

"A messenger from St. Claire," answers the knight, "and a
knight errant and old companion of Roland of St. Claire and
Fitz-Hamo of Montain."

Then the drawbridge is let down, and the travellers ride
into the courtyard where the flaring torchlight shines on
many a shield and spear.

Lord Robert Fitz-Hamo comes out from the dark arched doorway
to welcome his guests, and the knight thrusts forward young
Gilbert.

"Do thine errand, my lad," he says; "a faithful messenger
has the first right to speak his lord's message."

"Lord Roland of St. Claire greets thee by me," said the boy
to Fitz Hamo, "and bids me summon you, by the vows of
friendship which bind you to him, to come as quickly as may
be to his assistance, for Sir Everhard Breakspear, with two
hundred lances, lays siege to St. Claire,
[166] for the rescue of
his kinsman, the traitor, Sir Tristan."

"I will come," cries Fitz Hamo; "to-morrow's dawn shall see
me on the way, with a hundred good lances behind me."

"And now, my old comrade," he exclaims, turning to the
knight, "thou art thrice welcome,—as my friend and comrade
in many a fight with the Saracens, as my guest for to-night,
and my companion for to-morrow."

"We will spend the night in preparation, and this boy, who
has been a faithful messenger, shall have rest and good
cheer, that he may return with us to-morrow."

I would gladly tell you of the speedy journey next day; and
how, reaching the woods of St. Claire at nightfall, Gilbert
left his horse, and, with swift, stealthy step, passed
through the camp of the besiegers, and reached the little
postern gate, gained admittance, and laid before Sir Roland
the mode of attack that his friends had planned; how, in the
morning, the besiegers heard the shout of "Montain! Montain!"
in their rear, just as the castle gates were thrown
[167] open for a sudden sally of knights, shouting, "St. Claire! St.
Claire!"

But all this will not much concern our boys. You would
rather hear how they went the next month to the great
tournament at Chalons, where they did homage to the king;
and, besides seeing much gallant play with lance and sword,
carried many a ribbon or broidered scarf from fair lady to
brave knight, and served at many a feast in silken pavilion.

And you will gladly hear how Sir Richard Britto came to St.
Claire, true to his promise, and found his young hostage,
Edward, safe and happy among the other pages, and kindly
cared for by the Lady Margaret. How Sir Roland ransomed Sir
Richard for ten thousand crowns; and how Sir Richard took
the boy home to his lady mother, whom he loved, and how, in
the long winter evenings, Edward told tales to his brothers
of Castle St. Claire, and his companions there.

You can very well see how Gilbert will one day himself
become a knight; have his sword blessed by the priest, watch
his armor all night
[168] in the church, and receive the accolade
(a blow of the sword upon his shoulder) from which he rises
Sir Gilbert.

Then he will set out to do deeds of valor, and to win
renown, and the right to emblazon his white shield with some
emblem of his victories. He is a more gentle boy than Wulf,
and to the desire to be a brave knight in battle he adds the
wish to be a courteous knight not only to every woman and
helpless child, but alike to friend and foe.

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